


Evergreen

by RaisonDetre



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Based off of True Blood, Derek owns a diner and Lyds and Stiles work for him, F/F, F/M, M/M, Overuse of ain't and double negatives and y'all and ya, Peter is a Little Shit, Set in Louisiana, So everybody talks like they do in the boondocks, Telepathic! Stiles, This fic is what happens when I begin watch TB, True Blood- Alternate Universe, Weird Werewolf Dynamics that I make up as I go, but with werewolves?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6029539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisonDetre/pseuds/RaisonDetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s either a human or a wolf, ain’t no in between.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evergreen

**Author's Note:**

> I watched True Blood and now I'm deprived. Therefore, I vented by writing this in the cloak of night. I hope you enjoy and all feedback is very welcome.

The stench of cigarettes and cheap boozes are heavy in the air of the first floor of the two story home. It’s ancient, so everything sinks into the walls and stays there. Only by overpowering the scent with time and constant burning of dollar candles from the discount store down the street did the smell ever disappear. 

Stiles sits on the edge of the kitchen counter, the yellow and kinda-white plastic tiles are peeling underneath his wandering fingertips because again, the house is ancient and everyone who lives here is way too cheap to even think about replacing anything. It doesn’t help that half of them are just as lazy, too. So, nothing is ever actually taken care of. 

“C’mon, Lyds!” He shouts into the silent atmosphere. Feet away from him at the kitchen table, the dark-haired girl, Allison, cringes up at his sudden voice and drops her cigarette into her chipped coffee cup.

She’s Scott’s new girl, or he thinks she is. Stiles is half positive that she’s gay for Lydia- but then again, almost everyone is something for the sharp redhead. 

Above him, he hears the stomping of Lydia before a few strangled words try to pass through the rotting wooden floors. Probably giving her deadbeat boyfriend- at least, she was dating him last night at seven, so they may be broken up now- a piece of her very educated mind. 

“Fuck you, Jackson! When I get back, you best be out of my damn house!” Stiles glances up from where he sips on a glass of water to Lydia. She’s standing at the top of her stairs, all rage and no chill. 

Her ass is hardly in her tight shorts and she’s managed to get her bra on, but it remains unclasped. Her white shirt is thrown over her head like a necklace- she either woke up a few minutes ago or she just angry-fucked Jackson. 

“Then who the hell would’ya fuck?” Jackson’s voice is muted enough to show that he obviously still laid in bed, probably with a hard-on and rolling around in his own dried up jizz. 

“Are you kidding me?” She shouts back, but only rolls her eyes as she continues down the stairs, each step creaking loudly from the sudden weight. 

Stiles almost wants to laugh. Lydia could fuck anyone in this town, and Jackson knows it. 

Allison hums from where she sits, folded legs beneath her as she stretches in what looks to be Scott’s shirt. “Y’all are fuckin’ crazy,” she whispers, but the brunette watches as Lydia moves to the living room and switches on the television. 

From the kitchen, the tv is in well enough view, and with Lydia angrily cranking up the volume, the three of them can all comfortably listen to the news she turned on. 

“Wow,” Stiles can hear Lydia’s eyes roll from where he sits. “They’re still talking about werewolves. You’d think the way everyone is so stuck up the asses of them, that they just only came out a few weeks ago.” 

When Stiles peaks his head to the tv, the screen prints out ‘WEREWOLVES- ARE THEY RUINING OR RUNNING THIS COUNTRY?’ with two women who look like they’ve been done with this shit since the day werewolves became universally acknowledged. 

“I dunno,” and this time, it’s Allison who speaks. “Kinda world-altering. One day your ma’s tellin’ you monsters don’t exist; the next, one reveals itself as president. An evergreen story if I ever saw one.” 

“They ain’t no monsters,” Stiles replies, but what does he really know. He works at a bar in the middle of nowhere from one in the morning to eleven in the afternoon. He never met one. And he probably never will. But he also pays for internet, and use it good, he does. From what he could tell, werewolves were practically the same as humans save for their need for bloodier meat and raw hearts. 

“Dude,” Lydia stood up and continued her way from the couch to the fridge. “Shut up, it’s too early.” 

“What?” Stiles shrugged but he kept his eyes on Allison. Where her loyalty stood was with Scott, and Scott had the horrible tendency of screwing crazy bitches. So if Stiles stepped on her toes, the odds are that she wouldn’t notice between fucking his friend and then inevitably disappearing from their lives like she was never there. 

“You ever met one?” Allison turns her head to him. Her face is bare and there are bags underneath her dark, bambi eyes. She looks hopelessly kind while simultaneously, the clenching of her jaw and the flaring of her pointy nose creates the expression of a war-ridden soldier. 

“What?” Stiles repeats like a dead record. 

She reaches across the table for the pack of cigarettes Jackson left on the table yesterday. She doesn’t speak again until she flicks out her lighter and steals another coffin nail. “Werewolf.” 

“Well, no, but I read about ‘em, and they’re suppose to be like us,” Stiles hums back to her, closing his amber eyes as he imagines what it would be like. His dad use to know some, but only back when no one knew any of them- when werewolves were still simply legends, his dad covered for them and created stories to give to nosey journalists when he was still just a rookie cop. 

“That’s what they want ya’t’think,” Allison hums beneath her breath, shaking her head and bringing the flickering flame to the cigarette bud in attempt to kindle it. “You really think a thing like that could be normal? Be like us? They’re superior. Smarter, stronger, faster. Five percent of the population identifies as a werewolf but almost half of government officials are weres. Ain’t that just a lil’ fishy?” 

“I can see where you’re coming from,” Lydia bites in, reaching into the fridge and bringing out a bottle of orange juice. She doesn’t bother to pour it in a cup, she simply takes a swig of it and leaves a ring of red lipstick around the neck of the container. “But I rather have smart wolves in office rather than some old white fucks thinking with their dicks, y’know.” 

“Yeah, exactly,” Stiles nods, but he waits for Allison to speak. She’s from a place bigger than Beacon Hills. Living in the boondocks kept the town isolated, when wolves came out of their forests it hardly made a change in the entire parrish. 

“‘M just saying,” Allison lifts up the hand that holds her cigarette. “Look back at history, hell- just take a look around yourself. When you have the chance to better yourself or the guy right next to you, odds are you’d pick yourself. It’s rare someone ever breaks from that pattern.” 

“I can see that,” he replies, agreeing. “White dudes fucked over everyone for centuries.”

“They still do, sweetie,” Lydia tells him, her eyes are fixated on the television screen as she says it though. 

“And even more, what makes a human tick ain’t what makes a werewolf tick,” Allison continues, she turns over in her chair, finally eying Stiles completely. 

“Whaddya mean?”

“When you finally meet one, Stiles, you’ll have your answer.”

 

*

 

The one comforting thing about the only real successful bar in Beacon Hills was the fact that it was successful. There was always a steady stream of customers waiting to be served and seldom did anyone get drunk enough to openly harass one of the waiters or waitresses. 

And if one did get drunk enough to outweigh their slurred words than well thought-out speech patterns, most of the time it was Danny, and he was a harmless man who would be kicked out because his laugh was too loud. 

Stiles stood on his side of the bar, beside him, the owner, Derek Hale, pushed a rag inside of a chipped shot glass. 

“Stop it,” Derek growled beneath his breath, glaring at the younger man as he innocently shrugged his shoulders and kept his eyes on his hands. “I don’t like it when you bounce around my head.” 

“Well,” Air whistled through his teeth as Stiles sucked in a breath. “You’re acting all twelve-year-old-emo-kid. Plus, that mind of yours ain’t nowhere as fucked up as the rest of the people in this joint.” 

Stiles Stilinski had the unfortunate ability, or gift, as his late mother would call it, to read people’s minds. Half the time, it wasn’t on purpose. Sometimes, others’ thoughts screamed into his head and others’, like the people close to him, were harder. It felt too deep, too personal to read the mind of those he actually cared about. 

“So,” Stiles began. “Y’gonna tell me why you’re cursing half the world to hell?”

“Fuck you,” Derek glared, but no malice was present in his deep voice. “I… you’re not reading my mind, right?”

“Dude,” Stiles’s face became blank. “If I was, I wouldn’t waste my breath on askin’ you anything!” 

“My uncle-” 

“Uncle Theo’s comin’ to town?!” The younger man practically bounced on his feet, grinning without hesitation at the new promise of Derek’s family passing through. The Hales were an enigmatic clan, and any teenie bits Stiles could manage to pull out, he would take. 

“No, no- I mean, I wish. Uncle Theo is seven states away trying to tie down some business deal for the company,” his boss frowned deeper than usual, his dark brows pushed down as he tried his best to think, explain maybe. “My Uncle, Peter Hale. Went off to be some big shot in California, now we only see him every odd Christmas.” 

“And why’s that bad? If he’s such a jerk, it don’t seem like he’s gon’ waste any of his time in a lonely parrish like this one,” Stile replied quickly. 

Suddenly, his boss’s voice dropped to nothing more than a hardly audible whisper. “Listen,” Derek bit his lip before he continued. “And Stiles, I swear, you don’t say shit, cause what the fuck I’m about to tell you can ruin me. I trust you, Stiles. More than anyone in this joint, ‘cause I know if I tried to hide anything from you, your dumbass would still find a way of finding out.” 

“Fuckin’ spill the damn beans, Der!” He’s leaning in close to the other man, only inches away- he can smell the aftershave and the leather, mixed in with sweat from a night of working and the clinging stench of alcohol. 

“The Hale bloodline got a bit of wolf in it,” Derek whispered, but his icy blue eyes stayed transfixed on anyone who might be listening in. “It’s watered down enough that hardly any of us ever actually… y’know turn, well-- well, Peter… mom don’t know about him. She said he’s either a human or a wolf, ain’t no in between.” 

“Well damn,” Stiles’s expression looked utterly scandalized. “Who the fuck woulda thought.” 

“Not no one, but soon as he comes to town, people are going to know. Then I’ll lose all my damn business.” 

Stiles rolled his big, umber eyes and took the shot glass from Derek. He grinned. “I hardly think anybody’s goin’to notice your uncle.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice dropped, he tilted his head to the younger man and raised a thick eyebrow. “You ever met a werewolf?” And it was the second time today he heard that question, therefore the second time he shook his head no.   
“You don’t ignore a werewolf. They demand attention, and respect, and if you don’t give them at least one of those, odds are they’re going to be picking you out of their teeth,” the Hale scowled to him. “If that jackass walks one foot in this parish, everyone is going to know exactly what he is.”


End file.
